


A Solid Head on the Throne

by magnedhead



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Death, Dark Fantasy, Fiction, Magic, Shapeshifting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnedhead/pseuds/magnedhead
Summary: An assassin corners their quarry.





	A Solid Head on the Throne

Lightning split the sky and a peal of thunder rolled over the royal palace.  _ “The very sky cries out against the invasion”.  _ King Bernholdt mused as he looked out over the city. Smoke rose from a hundred forges spread throughout the city and a hundred workshops labored to fuel the armies of the nation. Today was the start of another glorious chapter in a lifetime of conquest. The vanguard of his armies must already have crossed the border into the neighboring country, and in the morning he would have reports of the first skirmishes. By the onset of winter, they would hold the capital and he would have conquered all the neighboring kingdoms. By next summer, he would be Emperor Bernholdt, first of his name, and he will truly have escaped his father’s shadow. 

But the evening was yet young and there was still work to do. The king emptied his glass of wine and retreated from the balcony and into the cozy warmth of his royal audience chamber. There were no audiences tonight, for the eve of war focused the attention of the palace. Only a lone messenger boy stood at the foot of the throne platform, awaiting his liege’s command.

“Boy,” The king shouted, “Summon my advisors and generals. It is time for council.” 

The boy nodded and hurried from the chamber. He knew the punishment for tardiness. 

King Bernholdt unclasped his coat and hung it over the back of the throne. The fur trimming extended over the back of the regal seat, giving it a wild air.  _ Like the warrior-kings of old. _ The king thought with a chuckle.

To his pleasure, it did not take long for the first of his advisors to arrive. Gratimere, an aging man of simple pleasures but great knowledge. He had served Bernholdt’s father before him and knew a great many things about a great many topics. Foremost among his many qualities was a near-total lack of ambition; Bernholdt had never felt the need to watch his back around the aging scholar, and that was a quality a ruler should keep well in mind. At Gratimere’s side was a young man dressed in the livery of the royal messengers; if not for the man’s beard-scruff, the king might have mistaken him for the messenger-boy he had sent out earlier. 

The king greeted Gratimere with a nod and turned to the messenger. The young man had been waiting for the king to address him and so delivered his message promptly, reading out loud from a scroll that carried the blue wax seal of the Messenger’s Guild. 

“The 3rd Regular Army has made contact with an opposing army. The 4th Regular is moving to flank the enemy while the 2nd Regular is moving to cut off their escape. General Raleigh expects victory before midday tomorrow.” The young man rolled up the scroll and looked to the king. 

Bernholdt simply nodded and waved the messenger towards the door. If General Raleigh believed in the battle, then Bernholdt would trust the man. Gratimere walked forwards as the messenger closed the doors to the audience chamber behind him. The old man had taken to using a cane over the last few years as his old age had begun to catch up to him. Bernholdt often wondered how much longer he would have the old man’s council, though he would never say it to Gratimere’s face. 

Gratimere walked in silence to the long table that had been set in the middle of the audience chamber, deposited a bundle of papers and sat down, the cane leaning against the back of the chair. Only then did he bow his head to Bernholdt. “My king.”

Few others would have been allowed to wait so long. “Gratimere. How goes it?”

The old man nodded and replied after a moment. “It goes, it goes. This thunder wrecks havoc on my old bones, so it does. But the world does not wait for old men, so work must still be done.”

“Such complaints ring hollow when you yourself declined an assistant less than a moon ago.” Bernholdt replied and rose from his throne. He had his own seat at the table. It was a far cry from the regal authority of the throne, but he did not wish to be so far from the conversation at these times. 

“Some clumsy youth would only slow me down. Having more hands is not worth having to correct them at every turn.” Gratimere said while waving dismissively, then picked up the bundle of documents that he had brought. 

“I looked deeper into the history and geography of Bomme, your highness, and I think I found something interesting that warrants your attention.” With a flick of the wrist, the scholar sent the bundle skidding across the table to stop in front of Bernholdt.

Bernholdt’s eyebrows raised at the method of delivery, but the information that Gratimere spoke of held his interest. The front page was a simple affair, carrying Gratimere’s full name and title as the author and the words  _ The Heart of Bomme _ as the title of the document. In the corner of his eye, he could see Gratimere rising from his chair but took little notice. 

Bernholdt turned to the next page. His eye lit on the words  _ ‘the king is dumber than a pig’ _ . 

_ “Did Gratimere’s old age finally reach his brain?”  _ The king thought and saw similar insults written in a painstaking hand over the rest of the page in red ink.

“Gratimere, what is the meaning of this,” Bernholdt said and glared at his master scholar, “Even you cannot–” 

Bernholdt’s words caught in his throat. Gratimere was approaching him, but he was doing so unaided and unbowed. The cane he used was still leaning against his chair and he was straight-backed as he walked. The darkness in the corners of the chamber was closing in, following at the heels of the man. It was so dense that Bernholdt could not see the entrance to the chamber, nor the balcony behind the throne. The corners of the man’s eyes had begun to glow, emanating flames with a sickly green colour.

“Gratimere, what is the meaning of this?” Bernholdt shouted and looked back to his aging advisor. 

“Not to worry, my king, not to worry.” The words ‘my king’ were spoken with such mockery and there was a smile on Gratimere’s face that the king had never seen before.

Bernholdt’s hand went to the ceremonial sword at his side. “Have you lost your mind, old man? Any more of this and I will strike you down, so I swear.”

Gratimere simply laughed and continued walking. Bernholdt drew his sword with a shout of rage but before he could raise his sword, Gratimere was at his side and grasped the king’s sword-arm, slamming it into the table with such force that Bernholdt’s fingers were broken by the impact and the sword flew from his hands to land on the stone floor of the audience chamber. The sound of it was strangely muted. The king cried out in pain and frustration with his broken hand. But King Bernholdt was a big man, and not unaccustomed to battle and injuries. Even with these changes, he was still a full head taller than Gratimere, and much broader to boot. He turned towards the scholar and pushed with his entire body, attempting to push the old man onto his back. For a moment Gratimere gave ground, but it was simply a ruse. Gratimere rolled around the king’s shove and twisted his broken arm onto his back, then forced Bernholdt to the ground. He slammed his face into the stone floor and felt his mouth fill with blood and agony as several teeth were broken. His nose, too, was smashed. 

“Gratimere, why are you doing this?” The king shouted, spitting blood. His entire body was in pain and the edges of his vision were growing dark. 

The man he knew as Gratimere lifted him bodily and threw him into Bernholdt’s own council chair, the wooden legs screeching as the chair was pushed back a few inches. Bernholdt’s sight was diminished from the pain and blood loss, but he could see his attacker. Whoever it was, they had shed the appearance of the old scholar. In Gratimere’s place stood a young woman with pale skin, black hair and green eyes that matched the eerie flames flowing from the corners of her eyes. Her body appeared to be well-trained, but not enough to throw a man like Bernholdt around like a ragdoll. She wore Gratimere’s scholarly robes beneath a cloak of some shiny material, and tattoos in dark green ink led the eyes to a mouth split into a wide grin.

“I apologise for the deception, your highness. Without it, things would have been awkward.” She said. As she spoke, Bernholdt could hear Gratimere’s tone fading from her speech.

“Who are you?” He stammered and tried to sit up properly. His hip stabbed at him and he wondered if that too was broken.

“That is of little consequence, your highness, especially given your current circumstance.” The woman said and walked over to the ceremonial sword on the floor. She picked it up as if it were a toothpick.

“What do you want from me?” Bernholdt said. 

The woman looked at him and laughed. “Why, King Bernholdt of the Crimson River, I want you dead. It’s nothing personal, but there it is.” 

“Are you from Bomme? Or Lattwald?” The king said, trying to match the woman’s appearance to any of the nations that had used to border his kingdom. 

“You insult me, great king, it’s nothing so boorish as petty revenge.” The woman said, still holding the ceremonial sword. The darkness had left a circle of light just for the two of them. The king heard no sounds from the palace around them, nor the thunder of the storm outside. 

“What is it then?” King Bernholdt demanded, his voice# full of fury.

“If you want information or money, you will get neither from me, nor will a dead king aid you in that endeavour.” He rose from the chair as best he could, standing on shaking legs. 

The woman approached without a word and kicked the king in the chest, knocking the wind from him and shoving him back into the chair. “If you truly wish to know, then I’ll tell you.”

The woman circled around to the back of the chair and took the king by the throat. He could still breathe, but he felt sure that the woman could choke him easily, if she so wished. He could feel her breath on his face as she leaned in close.

“We want your burgeoning empire to topple, King Bernholdt. With your death, and the royal palace in chaos, those kingdoms you conquered will see an opportunity, a way out of their existence as petty vassals.”

The grip grew tighter and Bernholdt could hear the excitement growing in the woman’s voice. “Rebellions will erupt and war will spread to every corner of the continent. It will be a sight to remember.” 

“The royal army is still out there,” The king said through the chokehold, “General Raleigh will restore order.”

“Ah, but an army needs to eat,” The woman replied, relishing every second, “And there will be no supply caravans from the capital. What happens next, when upstanding soldiers need food?”

_ “Raids and pillaging.”  _ Bernholdt thought, but said nothing.

“My death won’t stop the empire. My line does not end with me.” He said.

The pressure on his throat slackened slightly as the woman shifted position. The king heard something hit the floor and saw it roll into view. A trail of bright, red blood followed the severed head as it rolled across the floor to stop against one of the other chairs. He knew the features well; it was the head of the crown prince, his first-born son. 

“Simon!” The king shouted and pushed against the choke-hold, trying to rise. 

“Woah, hold still, my king, or you might get hurt.” The woman taunted and pulled him back into the seat.

“Unhand me, wench!” Bernholdt shouted, still fighting the hold. 

As if in mocking compliance, the king was yanked from his seat and thrown to the floor, landing next to the severed head of his son and smashing his jaw against the stone floor. Before he could speak, he heard another thump and his wife’s head rolled to a stop against the leg of his own chair.

“The royal family brutally murdered and the king found dead in his own audience chamber, a mocking letter from the high scholar on the table and a knife belonging to the city’s foremost noble plunged into his chest.” The woman said and laughed. The green flames at the corners of her eyes flared brighter.

The king barely heard her, cradling the heads of his family. He did not register when the woman strode over to him and picked him up, placing him back in his seat.

“It’s time to go, great king. It’s been a pleasurable evening, to be sure.” She said and pushed him into the seat to hold him still. Bernholdt Grauber, the king that had conquered all the other nations on the continent, simply moaned. He did not resist. With a wide grin, the woman took the knife and stabbed the king in the chest, easily finding the heart. For a moment he reached out, hoping to grasp something only he could see, but then he fell still. 

The woman stepped back and observed her work, before her features shifted again. This time it was not the high scholar Gratimere, for his work was done. Instead it was a simple man of the city. She shed the scholarly robes to reveal the guard’s armour beneath and threw the robes off the balcony. With her transformation, so had the flames died from her eyes and the smothering darkness had faded. The guard opened the broad doors of the audience hall and ran down the corridor beyond for a bit before shouting at the top of their lungs.

“The king is dead! Murder, murder in the palace!”


End file.
